


Cherry Pie and Jack

by landrews



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Gen, Hell
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-28
Updated: 2013-10-28
Packaged: 2017-12-30 18:30:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 993
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021985
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/landrews/pseuds/landrews
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Seeking to forget makes exile all the longer; the secret of redemption lies in remembrance.</i><br/>Richard von Weizsaecker - </p>
<p>Dean runs into a familiar face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cherry Pie and Jack

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: standard SPN content, mild language - Set early S5
> 
> Written October 2010 for Last Author Standing. Voted both Best and Worst out of 23 entries... so possibly really good or maybe totally incoherent... YMMV :-) 
> 
> The prompt was 'redemption'.

 

He's stalking out of the Stop 'N Go, focused on the dust clouding the Impala's sleek lines, not really seeing anything in front of him, when he stumbles over the folded edge of an unrolled blanket. Catching himself up without dropping the bag containing water, Mountain Dew, and pork rinds, Dean glares down and to the right at the top of a blonde man's greasy head.

“Hey,” he says, and bites his tongue before the rest follows... get a job. 

The man turns his face up. He's a boy, really. The eyes of a startled doe, with high cheekbones and thin lips. Dean knows those eyes, those cheeks, the narrow nose. The boy's hands are moving, stroking the thin thighs of his ragged jeans over and over. His yellow 'Stony Springs!' tee shirt is stained. He's seeing something, but it's not Dean.

“Hi, hi, ya'know?” the boy stutters.

Dean remembers the slick slide of tongue in his grip, the cool metal of the scissors tight around his fingers. He closes his eyes.

“She don't...she don't...blame you. She don't.”

Shutting down the sense memory, Dean takes a firm grip on reality and stares down at the boy, who's nodding now, looking down. At the bed roll, his fingers. The sole of his right sneaker flaps as he wiggles his feet to and fro. Dean can see the boy's bare big toe. “Who,” Dean states, because he knows, already, but maybe he's wrong.

The boy glances up, over Dean's shoulder, his hand rising, though he doesn't point. “Her. Her. Cher... Cheri. She don't, she don't... she's moved on.”

“Moved on?”

“Purgatory,” Castiel growls into Dean's right ear, his voice rough as gravel.

Dean jumps. “Cas,” he snarls. “Back off.”

Castiel moves around to his left and peers down at the boy, who blinks back at him, mouth hanging open.

“What's wrong with him?”

“Neglect,” Castiel says. “Cheri supported him after her parents died.”

“Cherry was a killer,” Dean snaps.

“Yes,” Castiel agrees.

Dean's confused. Even after forty years in hell, he's surprised to hear someone can move on from there. He thought making demon was the only move up, with the possible exception of his Dad.

Castiel fills the silence. “There are a multitude of special circumstances, Dean. You are not the only one to capture the interest of the host.”

“God?” Dean says dryly.

“The Angels.”

The boy's blank gaze swings from Castiel to Dean and back again before fixing once more somewhere between them.

“Do I need to salt and burn something?”

“She is not a ghost, Dean. He's an Impressum.”

Shifting the bag to his other arm, Dean sighs. Sam is headed over from the pumps and Dean doesn't want to explain Impressum boy and Cherry to him. The boy looks just like her. Dean's stomach lurches over with a sour roll as he remembers slitting her belly open, running her gut through his hands while she grunted, the whites of her eyes showing. “Impressum?”

“He imprints on souls; tracks them even after physical death.”

“Any soul?”

Castiel shrugs. “God only knows.”

“Good one, Cas,” Dean grumbles.

“What's up?” Sam says as he joins them.

“Cas just came to say he's leaving.”

Castiel's dark eyes lock on Dean's.

“You'll be back,” Sam asks.

“Of course, Sam,” Castiel says to Dean after a long moment. He shifts his focus onto Cherry boy. “Keep your phone on so I can find you.”

“We always...” Sam starts, pulling out his phone. He turns it so Dean can see the blank screen. It's dead. “I will.”

Castiel claps Sam on the shoulder. “Wish me luck.”

Sam opens his mouth, but Castiel is already gone. 

A burly, black-bearded man shoves out the store's door. Dean steps out of his way.

“Where's he going?” Sam asks.

Dean shoves the bag at him. “Gotta piss.”

“Oh. Okay.” 

Dean spins on his heel and heads back inside. 

“I'll just...”

The door shuts, cutting off Sam's voice.

In the grimy restroom, Dean slaps the lock over and just makes it to the toilet before he pukes. He wipes his mouth, gags at the smell rising up from the sullied bowl and then stands on shaky legs.

He washes his hands, scrubs them off hard with the pink powdered soap he beats from the holder on the wall, and then splashes water on his face and tries to rinse the foul taste from his mouth. 

There's a flask under the driver's seat, but Sam's gonna bitch if he reaches for it before they crash somewhere for the night. Fuck. Cherry's brother. Dean had worked Cherry Pie for months. Alistair had been pleased with his carving, with the nipples sporting skin stems Dean had offered him like roses.

There's nothing, utterly nothing, Dean can do to make up for that.

There's an ATM on the side wall next to the ice cream cooler. Dean keys in the PIN he'd memorized just last week, takes as much cash as he can on advance and chucks Roberto Rodriguez's card in the trash can outside the door. 

Sam's already sitting in the passenger's seat of the Impala, studying the map.

Dean leans over and stuffs the cash into Cherry boy's front jacket pocket. 

The boy turns his face close to Dean's. His breath is hot. Grabbing Dean's wrist, he hangs on, drawing Dean down to whisper to him. “Cheri. Cheri don't blame you.” He runs his thumb over Dean's knuckles. “No blood. No blood on these hands.” 

Shaking his hand from the boy's fevered grip, Dean straightens.

The boy pats his jacket pocket. “Thank you. Thank you, Dean.”

Dean shudders. It's not redemption, but there's an odd sensation clawing at the heavy steel door inside him. The one he's hiding Hell behind. His heart eases, just a little. He thinks maybe he can ignore the flask and keep both hands on the wheel. 

But only until Sam lets him give up for the night.

 


End file.
